


Storm in a Teacup

by Siobhan_Schuyler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-21
Updated: 2007-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siobhan_Schuyler/pseuds/Siobhan_Schuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean sits with his ass on the hood and his boots in the mud, and eyes the flickering sign above the Roadhouse door. He tilts his head and relaxes his eyes and tries to see it as he'd first seen it when he didn't know what would greet them inside, when Ellen and her voicemail on Dad's phone were just another lead. No dice.</p><p>Eating crow's never been his forte.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm in a Teacup

Surely John Winchester has trained his boys better than this.

She hears Dean coming a mile away, grinding gears and hitting every pothole between the main road and the Roadhouse lot. The boxy Chevy thunders down the way, creaking in protest or relief when it finally ejects its driver into three inches of mud next to Pete Hardy's rusted-through pick-up. Not quite the loudest entrance Ellen's ever witnessed, but then she was married to Bill Harvelle, who always liked to let his ladies know Daddy was home (alive).

The place is nearly empty aside from Pete poring over messy stacks of papers and Jim Lortie nodding off at a table in the corner, his back squarely to the wall. Ellen takes the shotgun from under the bar, cocks it, and walks around to stand facing the door.

She aims it right at the middle of Dean's chest when he stumbles in, soaked through and out of breath. From the look on his face when he skids to a stop, door swinging shut behind him, he might've been expecting this sort of welcome.

"Ellen, please. Lemme talk to her."

Ellen nearly falters at the look of pure misery he gives her. But the mention of Jo overrides the oddly maternal sentiment, and she angles the shotgun up to aim at Dean's forehead. He stiffens, adam's apple bobbing.

"You get out of here, Dean Winchester, before my trigger finger slips."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Dean's derisive snort dies in his mouth. She's never quite been able to convince him that she really has forgiven their dad long time ago; this impression of a grudge comes in handy once in a while. Like when Dean's being a dick to her kid. Idle threats never hurt anyone—but he doesn't need to know that.

"I just want to talk to her," he says, trying for soft-spoken and coming off as awkward as a bull in a china shop. Ellen gets the impression he usually leaves the smooth-talking to Sam.

The nose of Bill's shotgun dips to the floorboards and Ellen fits the butt of it against her armpit, giving Dean the best stink-eye she can muster.

"I think you've done enough. Jo doesn't want to talk to you." If Dean's expression sank any further, she could kick it across the room like a puppy. "You blew it, kid. Go home." The cruelty of the last word might be softened by her thing for tragic, hopeless types. She makes herself turn away and walk back to her post behind the bar, where she tucks the weapon back where she's always kept it, since Bill.

To his credit, Dean doesn't let the door hit him on the ass on the way out. Winchesters always did know not to overstay their welcome.

*

He just got laid, there's a _Cop Rock_ marathon on, and Ellen owes him two brewskies in exchange for services rendered. This is a good night.

"Hot _dog_ ," Jo moans miserably next to him, face buried into Ash's single pillow. He has to do with his own arm tucked behind his head. Jo might've actually said 'Oh god'; Ash's left ear is still ringing from that time Rex Jennings blew up half a lab trying to prove his thesis. 2002 hadn't been a good year for anyone.

She's blocking him in, a skinny acre of curves trapping him against the wall and the _Reefer Madness_ poster he has no recollection of putting up. He scrambles over her, slapping her on the ass as he gets to his feet. Her blind flailing kick misses his groin by an inch.

He scratches his junk on principle and picks up his robe from the floor. It's a ratty seafoam green and doesn't cover anything below mid-thigh, but it's awesome. He finds half a joint in the pocket and tucks it behind his ear. A good night indeed.

"You want a beer? Your mom's buyin'."

"Oh _GOD_!" she cries louder, face hidden still, but he thinks he can see the tips of her ears go bright red through the tangle of her hair. Her tiny feet kick at the mattress when she wriggles with a full-body shudder.

On a regular day, Ash might've been offended. But a _Cop Rock_ marathon tended to put everything else in perspective.

*

Sam shuffles in the next morning, looking sheepish. Jo watches her mom cock a brow at him but remain silent beyond a perfunctory greeting. The glass she's wiping clean squeaks under her towel and Ellen throws a quick, meaningful look Jo's way. Sink or swim, kid.

Jo makes her way across the room gingerly, still sore from the night before (oh _god_ ), and goes to lean both elbows on the bar next to the stool Sam is hunched on. He looks at her like he's not quite sure what he's doing here either.

"He send you here to do his dirty work?"

"No," Sam says, lying inelegantly. "I'm a free agent." His eyes are a little wide, nervous, trying to convey a sense of guilelessness so unlike him that Jo would laugh if the situation was remotely funny.

"Tell him he can eat me," Jo clarifies, and moves to return to the stack of empty boxes she was taking apart by the pool table.

The clatter of last night's empties echoes pointedly from across the room when Sam slides off his stool to come stand near Jo. Out of arm's reach, she notices, but can't quite bring herself to feeling smug about it.

"He's sorry he--" Sam starts, then stops. Wrong tack. She turns around with both hands on her hips to watch him scratch at the back of his head, the way she's seen Dean do when he's flustered. She wonders if the habit is contagious, or just genetic. Sam sighs, dropping the act. Smart guy. "He just wants to talk to you."

"Fine. He can come back here himself like a man instead of sending his emissary. I hope he's at least making it worth your trouble?"

"I haggled him up to handing over total control of the tape deck for two weeks. I should thank you," Sam grins. Jo's mouth curls up at the ends, in spite of herself. Sam's voice softens along with his eyes, for real this time. "He really _is_ sorry, Jo."

Jo huffs inarticulately and turns to toss a couple of collapsed boxes into the corner. "Yeah, well." Middle man or no, she's not about to throw Sam a bone just to make Dean feel better.

"Sam," Ellen interrupts, with the kind of tone she uses to break up heated arguments near closing time, or make Jo take out the trash when she really, really would rather be doing something else.

Sam eyes Jo hesitantly, fishing for an actual verdict, then slinks away when none is forthcoming.

*

Dean sits with his ass on the hood and his boots in the mud, and eyes the flickering sign above the Roadhouse door. He tilts his head and relaxes his eyes and tries to see it as he'd first seen it when he didn't know what would greet them inside, when Ellen and her voicemail on Dad's phone were just another lead. No dice.

Eating crow's never been his forte.

He sits out there, hands linked and face tilted up, for a good hour before the screen door creaks open and Jo steps out, looking pissed. It's the most beautiful thing ever.

"Hey," he offers, with as much penitence as he can cram into one syllable.

Her stance on the porch is about as forgiving as a punch in the teeth. "Where's my fucking olive branch, you shithead?"

"He came back with his tail between his legs," Dean grits out. "See if I ever do anything nice again."

"You sent your _brother_!"

"Your _mother_ nearly shot my balls off!"

They glare at each other, both equally disbelieving and just as stubborn. A drizzle starts coming down, dampening their stalemate.

"You locked me in the _trunk_ , Dean," Jo starts again, low and dangerous.

Dean admittedly feels a little bad about that, but still feels the need to defend the way his delicate boyfriend sensibilities had been affronted (as she put it). "You were gonna get ki—!"

"I swear to god if you say that one more time, _I'm_ going to shoot your fucking balls off!"

A weak roll of thunder rumbles overhead, mimicking their bickering, the tepid rain practically mocking it. Jo glares at him until he looks down, admitting defeat with a helpless flap of his arms.

"Fine. It was wrong of me to lock you in the trunk even though you wanted to chase something that would've _eaten you for dinner_ ," he says, pointedly and not quite apologetic. Jo juts her jaw at him, the effect somewhat lessened by the way her lashes are sticking together into points, prettily. Dean feels a twinge of actual regret. "I'm sorry," he adds, more heartfelt. Then does his best not to smirk. "Next time I'll just lock you in the house."

Jo crosses her arms, but her glare has a hint of a grin in it. "Next time I'll just flush your ammo."

"You wouldn't."

" _Try me._ "

*

He might've failed Dean as a peace agent, but Sam's still a little pissed at having been relegated to the _bathroom_ while Jo and his brother make up. He'd go out but it's pissing rain and Dean's guarding the car keys like a Rottweiler, afraid Jo's gonna bolt again. Not entirely without reason.

It's been years and several inches since Sam could last make himself comfortable in a bath tub, so he sits on the toilet lid and balances the laptop on his knees, listening to the muffled sounds of the heated argument going on on the other side of the door. The inflections of Jo's indignant shouts and Dean's defensive caveman grunts have pretty much become the background noise of their everyday now, and there's a certain measure of comfort in it: things are back to normal.

Sam tools around eBay for a bit, doing searches on things like "occult" and "demonology" and "1967 Chevrolet Impala wing vent regulators" (whatever those are) since Dean's birthday's coming up.

"You slept with _who_?!" comes Dean's outraged cry, sounding a little more shrill than Dean should be comfortable with. Sam looks up, staring a hole in the door, straining to hear. For once, it's Jo's answer that sounds contrite, and by the unintelligible sounds Dean is making, Sam can easily picture him flailing in outrage. Maybe the vein in his forehead is popping out a little, Sam hopes cheerfully.

He sets the laptop on the edge of the tub and cracks the door open to get a piece of the action. He gets served a little more than anticipated, though, and lets out a grossed-out yelp as he slams the door back shut.

Definitely making up.

Sam sits back down gingerly, opens the private folder where he stashes his porn, and double-clicks on Ash's latest offering, _hardcore_slavic_girlongirl_hugejugs.mov_ , in an effort to erase from his mind the visual of his brother's bare ass.


End file.
